


My Name is Not Van de Kamp

by agoodwoman



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodwoman/pseuds/agoodwoman





	1. Chapter 1

  
They say you're not able to remember things from infancy. They say your earliest memories start around age three. But for as long as I can remember, I have been able to see a face of a woman who I don't know. I have a vision of a woman I can see clearly when I close my eyes. I think, actually, I know she's my mother.

  
I can remember things I'm not supposed to remember about her. Things I was supposed to supress in the deep subconscious of my mind and evenually forget, as children do. Over the years the memories of her have only grown stronger instead of fading into the background.

   
I know she has red hair and icy blue eyes that looked at me with a mix of happiness and sorrow. I can remember a gold cross necklace in my line of sight against porcelain skin as she nursed me. I can still smell the lavender lotion she used after a bath at bedtime. I can remember an off-key voice singing to me as we shopped for groceries or in the car when I was upset. I will always remember her smile, the slight hint of gums you can see when she is really happy. 

  
I can remember a lot but I can't remember her name.

  
When I think about when I was a baby, the memories of her are as vivid as the people and places you see every day in your life. I feel certain of what I remember of her then as certain as you are of your own name. I know she has porcelain skin, more fair than mine. I know my real mother had a mother with dark hair and a father that passed on. 

  
Since I was seven, I've been looking around my house for any information on my adoption and the process my parents went through to get me - any clues to who she was and why she gave me up. I have found little to go on. My adoptive parents, who are wonderful people, think I don't know but I know the truth. I know a lot of things.

  
I know she's alive. And I'm going to find her.

  
Sometimes I can see her now, not just in my memories. I can hear  her voice, telling someone sadly she misses me. Talking to her mother and telling them she's fine but I know she isn't. When I was little I thought it was just more memories of when I was a baby but I realized her hair was longer and her face was thinner as though she had lost weight. 

  
When I was twelve I became absolutely sure when I heard her say a name. A last name. 

  
"Mulder." 

  
It's the only lead I have but I'm going to use it to find her. I have to warn her, with hopes of saving her. Or maybe she'll be saving us all. 

  
When I was eight I was diagnosed with acute anxiety but I knew my fears were founded. It's never easy having a feeling that something is coming. I knew that by the time I turned 16, something or someone dangerous would be here. I just turned fifteen and the clock is ticking to find her. 

  
There is a countdown to what's coming. I'm not sure how I know this but I feel it in my bones. I have 365 days to make sure she knows so she can stop whatever is coming.

  
This isn't displaced anger by finding out I was adopted. My parents and I never had the conversation of where I came from but there are some pretty obvious signs. When I look in the mirror I know I'm not a Van de Kamp. I have hazel eyes, a long nose and 'chicken lips.' Caroline, my adoptive mother, told me when I'm 25 they'll be described as pouty and girls will love it. I didn't have the heard to tell her I don't think the world will be here in 2026.

  
The problem is I'm not the spitting image of my birth mother. I don't have the same blue eyes or fair skin, so logically, I must take after my birth fater in a lot of ways too. I know I didn't get my height from her; I'm 5'8" and still growing. When I see her now, the long red hair, her heels clicking in the halls of a church or a hospital, I can see doorways being much higher than her head. I used to revel in the fact that I was seeing her. I realized if I was going to get anywhere with my search, I would have to pay attention to these things. I think my father is tall, with hazel eyes and a strange name. Even with all the advances in technology, they both seem to live a low-profile life. Offline and unavailable for me to reach them. 

  
I am sure when I confront Caroline and Jack about being adopted, they'll try to convince me I was adopted by a young woman with few choices and no support. That she was still in high school or troubled. I worry they'll try to tell me she's dead. 

  
As sure as I am sitting here, I know she's alive. Yesterday morning I heard my name again, loud and clear. Like a beacon. Like a whisper, behind me. Like a song playing from a radio. I heard her say, "William."

  
Later that day, as I was riding on the bus to school, I could hear her singing "Joy to the World," muffled as through a door. 

  
I'm not crazy, I have doubts. But I know it's not scizophrenia or psychosis. It's not my acute anxiety. This isn't some story I've made up in my head to deal with the fact that I live in the midwest on a farm as an only child. I have done my research and came up with only one explanation. 

  
It's something paranormal, something so fantastical that I have to look beyond the realms of science. 


	2. Sunflower Seeds and Faces

  
When I got home from school that afternoon, I locked my bedroom door, pulled out a pack of salted sunflower seeds and sat down at my desk. My adoptive mother Caroline is downstairs making supper and the house smells like simmering tomato sauce and meatballs. I have about forty five minutes before my dad, Jack, gets home and when he does I'll be expected to head down for dinner.

  
I spent the day humming Joy to the World between classes and feeling sad for my mother that she was hiding her tears from someone. I wanted to see her face but it was hidden by titian hair, catching only a glimpse at the hint of a smile. 

  
I ran my hands over my laptop and before booting it up. This thing is my prize posession, and it would be yours too if you have to milk as many cows, shovel as much horseshit and feed as many chickens as I did to earn enough money to buy the thing. Normally a PC laptop is inexpensive but for a farm kid from Casper, Wyoming I had to save for a few years. I decided to put extra memory to ensure I wasn't waiting on slow start up or delays in programs. The obvious choice was to have a laptop over a home computer for when I decide to leave to find her. My parents thought I wanted it for homework and online games.

  
As I look aroud my bedroom, I wonder when I will see her next. The visions are becoming more frequent and I'm able to control more of what I see. I'm able to see more of her surroundings and get better clues as to where she is. Thank God for Google Earth. I have been able to cross off a lot of the country but it's been a slow process due to the infrequent updates of rural areas. 

  
I pull out my housekeys and unlock the bottom drawer of my desk where my notebook with my research is sitting on top of a pile of previously filled books. Most of the research is memories of her and the people I've excluded from my search. Women I've found online through facebook, twitter and other social media with my mother's descriptors. Names of women who have similar features but don't match up.

I've thought about hacking systems that have access drivers licences or passport bureaus. I haven't gotten that desperate but I'm getting there. The online community of children given up for adoption is large and a few have informed me that for a price, they can get access to certain systems. Too bad I'm not in the financial position to pay $500 per state to search for my mother. The price is higher when you don't have a name.   

  
Any clues to her geograpy can be helpful since I know my parents have no available information on my adoption. I know she has to live somewhere with all four seasons because I've seen snow around her, thick and deep. During spring I see rain outside the window and grass turning greener. Once I saw her sitting on a porch in a sundress with a glass of iced tea, fanning herself during the summer heat. Last year I saw her bundled up with an oversized green coat that didn't look like it belonged to her raking leaves in the fall. So, California and the southern states are out.  I think I've narrowed it down to Virginia, Maryland or West Virginia.

  
Another identifier is that she lives in a house with a large porch on an open propery. I can see mountains and thick trees. I have a sketch book full of these images of her, the background, trees on the horizon, the mountains beyond that. 

  
I know there are some similarities to my house. Both of our homes have a long driveway with creaking stairs. At my house it's the bottom one, at hers the top two.  My home sits on a stretch of land for animals and hay, whereas she lives on a large stretch of land that does nothing more than serve as a barrier between them and the outside world. Indoors is cozy and feels like a home for two people. Deep couches with high arm rests and a well worn rug under the coffee table. There's usually breakfast dishes left on the table off the kitchen and I'm guessing that's not because of her. There's a crossbuck fence on the property near a pile of wood and a large garage. The house has a nice kitchen with a door off the back and a BBQ just under the awning. 

  
My frustration comes from not being able to control the timing of when I do get a vision of her. It's never when I want it to be; usually while I'm in class, working on homework, talking with friends or riding the bus to school. I started wondering if the person's eyes I was seeing her through was someone I was also connected to. It could possibly be my father, the messy man she lives with but I doubt she's married to. 

  
When my laptop is ready, I try for the simplest approach and boot up FireFox, and decide not to start with my usual round os searches. I typed in the last name, Mulder, expecting to get nothing.

  
Up popped a face that I swear I have seen before. I blink a few times and study this man in a suit and tie. I think he's my father. I think he's the reason she gave me up.

  
Hazel eyes, a prominent nose and chestnut brown hair. He looks about thirty and he's wearing a suit and tie sitting alongside a panel including doctors, scientists and other experts. The panel is titled the Visiting Lecturers Forum at the Massachusetts Institute. He's listened as an FBI agent and his name is Fox Mulder.

  
I research everything I can about Fox William Mulder and find that he was born October 13, 1961 in Chilmark, Massachusetts. He graduated at the top of his class at Oxford University in the jolly land of England and then was recruited to the FBI. The story I found on him was when he helped arrest Monty Propps in 1988. There are other old newspaper clippings discussing his expertise into the unexplained, searching for UFOs and working on paranomal pheonomenon. 

  
If I was anyone else I would say this guy was nuts. If I was anyone else I would say this is the reason my mother hid me from him and left me here. Something tells me this man is a dangerous person and I should be wary of him. I think my mother gave me up because of him and maybe she's hiding because of him. I start to think about how long I've been searching for her and what's held me back is this face, Fox Mulder. I can't find her because of him and I need to protect her from him at all costs.

* * *

 


End file.
